Whispers of the Dead Read Free

of course not?” demanded Fidelma sharply.
    “Because it is clear from this clothing, Sister, that the girl was a very poor country girl. Such a girl would not be able to afford such finery.”
    “Even a poor country girl will seek out some ornaments, no matter how poor she is,” replied Fidelma.
    Abbot Laisran came forward with a sad smile.
    “Nothing was found. So you see, Fidelma, this poor young woman cannot whisper to you from her place of death. A poor country girl and with nothing to identify her. Her whispers are silent ones. You should not have been so willing to accept my challenge.”
    Fidelma swung ’round on him to reveal the smile on her face. Her eyes twinkled with a dangerous fire.
    “On the contrary, Laisran. There is much that this poor girl whispers; much she tells us, even in this pitiable state.”
    Brother Donngal exchanged a puzzled glance with the abbot.
    “I don’t understand you, Sister,” he said. “What can you see? What have I missed?”
    “Practically everything,” Fidelma assured him calmly.
    Abbot Laisran stifled a chuckle as he saw the mortified expression on the apothecary’s face. But he turned to her with a reproving glance.
    “Come now, Fidelma,” he chided, “don’t be too sharp because you have been confronted with an insoluble riddle. Not even you can conjure facts out of nothing.”
    Abbot Laisran stirred uncomfortably as he saw the tiny green firein her eyes intensify. However, when she addressed him, her tone was comparatively mild.
    “You know better of me, Laisran. I am not given to vain boasting.”
    Brother Donngal moved forward and stared at the body of the girl as if trying to see what it was that Fidelma had observed.
    “What have I missed?” he demanded again.
    Fidelma turned to the apothecary.
    “First, you say that this girl is a poor country girl. What makes you arrive at such a conclusion?”
    Brother Donngal regarded her with an almost pitying look.
    “That was easy. Look at her clothing—at her sandals. They are not the apparel of someone of high rank and status. The clothes show her humble origins.”
    Fidelma sighed softly.
    “My mentor, the Brehon Morann, once said that the veil can disguise much; it is folly to accept the outside show for the inner quality of a person.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “This girl is not of humble rank, that much is obvious.”
    Abbot Laisran moved forward and peered at the body in curiosity.
    “Come, Fidelma, now you are guessing.”
    Fidelma shook her head.
    “I do not guess, Laisran. I have told you,” she added impatiently, “listen to the whispers of the dead. If this is supposed to be a peasant girl, then regard the skin of her body—white and lacking color by wind and sun. Look at her hands, soft and cared for as are her nails. There is no dirt beneath them. Her hands are not calloused by work. Look at her feet. Again, soft and well cared for. See the soles of the feet? This girl had not been trudging fields in those poor shoes that she was clad in, nor has she walked any great distance.”
    The abbot and the apothecary followed her instructions and examined the limbs she indicated.
    “Now, examine her hair.”
    The girl’s hair, a soft spun gold color, was braided behind her head in a single long plait that reached almost to her waist.
    “Nothing unusual in that,” observed Laisran. Many women in the five kingdoms of Éireann considered very long hair as a mark of beauty and braided it in similar style.
    “But it is exceptionally well tended. The braiding is the traditional
cuilfhionn
and surely you must know that it is affected only by women of rank. What this poor corpse whispers to me is that she is a woman of rank.”
    “Then why was she dressed as a peasant?” demanded the apothecary after a moment’s silence.
    Fidelma pursed her lips.
    “We must continue to listen. Perhaps she will tell us. As she tells us other things.”
    “Such as?”
    “She is married.”
    Abbot Laisran